The Art of James Baldwin and Chinua Achebe: A Reflection

During their first meeting at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst in 1980, James Baldwin had described Chinua Achebe’s writing as “a magnificent confirmation of the human experience,” while Achebe praised Baldwin as “a passionate, unflinching, and prophetic writer” who illuminated “the darkest corners of human existence with uncompromising honesty.”  

When I think about art, I see it as both a mirror and a tool—on one side, reflecting the world as it is, while on the other, reimagining it as it could be. For Chinua Achebe, art represents “man’s constant effort to create for himself a different order of reality from that which is given to him.” For James Baldwin, art is an unrelenting pursuit, where the artist “must drive to the heart of every answer and expose the question the answer hides.” Reading Baldwin’s If Beale Street Could Talk (1974) and Achebe’s Arrow of God (1964), I was struck by Achebe’s provocative portrayal of art and Baldwin’s investigative depth—how they both understood the issues of their time and defiantly captured the essence of how art shapes and interrogates the human experience.

Art’s ability to interrogate human experience or our reality of being has often provided grounding for those, like myself, caught between worlds. As a nonimmigrant living and working in Harlem, New York City, I have frequently turned to Baldwin’s and Achebe’s works to reconcile my present and find help about writing my own memories of home. For many Africans who leave the continent in search of new beginnings, whether it’s education or job, loneliness and homesickness are like sides of the same coin that draw you on both ends. For me, reading and writing have offered me balance, and a space to tell my truth. 

While reading Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953), I noticed how he portrays truth as the cornerstone of an artist’s responsibility, a means of personal and societal liberation. As uncompromising and often painful, he viewed truth as “always necessary”.  As he wrote, “It’s the artist’s duty to confront and reveal truth, no matter the cost.” Similarly, Achebe placed truth at the heart of his art, which if you read for instance Things Fall Apart (1958), you will notice how Achebe juxtaposed the Igbo traditional beliefs with Christianity without judgement. Truth, for Achebe, was not merely a moral compass by which to justify, but a lens through which to view reality.

When I arrived in Harlem in the winter of 2023, a local historian told me, “A half-truth is a whole lie,” a phrase which has ever since, pushed me to observe Harlem with strikingly familiarity—like Freetown, Accra, or Dakar, where the concrete street life, busty markets, and congested traffic, greet you with passion. Harlem welcomed me, much like Freetown, but I see vividly, a city embracing one of its heroes, in the food, the jazz, the blues, swag, in churches, and books. For Baldwin’s Harlem, preserving truth is a necessity, a calling to represent their heroes and preserve their truths. No wonderI caught myself engulfed in the writings of a man who had rested in power a century ago, and even in exile, Baldwin’s art remained deeply rooted in the struggles, triumphs, and histories of Harlem.

Baldwin left the United States for France in 1948 at the age of 24, escaping the suffocating weight of systemic racism. In The Fire Next Time (1963), he reflected on how Harlem remained with him even in exile, shaping his perspective and art. 

Achebe, on the other hand, experienced political exile after the Biafran War, an event that deeply informed his later works, such as Anthills of the Savannah (1987).  For both Baldwin and Achebe, exile became a platform for reflection and deep observation—a reconnection to their past. Baldwin needed to escape Harlem to tell its truth; Achebe carried his truth with him across continents. Through their works, both writers served as bridges between their homelands and the broader world. 

Another reason I am drawn to Baldwin’s and Achebe’s works is their portrayal of male characters, reflecting the complexities of masculinity, identity, and societal expectations. As someone raised by a single mother, I experienced abandonment at a young age. My father, though a gifted artist, struggled to channel his love for art into love for his children. This tension often makes me question the balance between an artist’s devotion to their craft and their commitment outside of it.  

In Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953), he created a male character; Gabriel, who grappled with guilt and societal oppression. Similarly, in If Beale Street Could Talk (1974), Baldwin’s Fonny, a sculptor, fights for personal liberation in a world dominated by systemic racism.  

Achebe’s male characters, like Baldwin’s, face similar struggles. For instance, Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart (1958) is driven by a fear of weakness and failure, shaped by his father’s perceived shortcomings and his inability to stop the emergence of a new religion that threatens to dismantle his world—forces that ultimately contribute to his downfall. Both authors demonstrate how societal forces—racism in Baldwin’s Harlem and colonialism in Achebe’s Nigeria—shape and often destroy their male characters. 

Yet, if there is one theme I have continually drawn from their work, it is the persistent need to rewrite my own script—to seek my truth and embrace my responsibility as a writer.  

Melvin Sharty is the co-author of "Talking Kapok Tree & Other Short Stories", and author of "A Gift for Failure (a novella). Melvin lives in Harlem, New York where he works for a non-profit. During his free time, he enjoys writing, visiting museums, or playing soccer.

Toys from Africa

Toys from Africa by Melvin Sharty

As kids growing up in Kenema, in the east of Sierra Leone, we loved drawing, creating models of cars, boats, and jets out of paper. To produce a miniature vehicle, we would spend hours trying to understand exactly how the wheels turn, and then recreate it. We would also use pieces of cardboard and glue to make televisions because our parents could not afford one. We would light an oil lamp inside it to light up the paper screen, providing moving shadows. When we made these toys, our parents would scold us. They would even flog us and tell us to stop bringing scraps from the dustbin into the compound. Now I know that what was unique about these childhood inventions is that we were observant and would pay attention to details.

Between childhood and adulthood, those toys, and the inspiration we got from inventing them faded because no one thought anything of it. Our general science classes in schools focused solely on teaching about inventions from the West, miles away from our environment. Nobody paid attention to what was unique about our toys.

***

When I started traveling to the West, I developed a love for visiting museums. So, whenever I travel to a new city for work, school, or vacation, I always make sure to stop by a museum. More than anything else, museums are spaces where I learn, connect, and find inspiration. Now I know that the childhood spirit of wanting to make or create something is still in me.

Recently, I visited the American Museum of Natural History in New York. It was busy with visitors from all around the world having different accents and attires. At the grand entrance, we were greeted by security guards and a sculpture bearing a message about the museum’s mission since its founding in 1869. On the ground floor, I was met with the imposing skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus rex resting on an elevated platform. It was awe-inspiring to stand before one of the largest creatures to ever roam the Earth, with its massive jaws, fearsome teeth, and tiny arms. I saw parents and their kids playing around it. I too couldn’t resist taking some selfies with the skeleton in the background.

Photo Credit: Melvin Sharty

I then proceeded to the third floor where my inspiration to write this reflection was sparked. Everybody was busy taking pictures or just staring at the magnitude of wonder and creativity in front of them. However, there was one exhibition that didn’t get enough attention, perhaps because it was quite different from all the other exhibitions. I went there immediately.

The exhibition was labelled, “African Ethnography.” To my surprise, it was a collection of toys from Africa made of tins and cans—the same kinds of toys we used to make as kids. “Why are they here?” I wondered. And then, when I read further, I learnt that it was “to show people about the creativity of Africa’s kids.” I giggled. Are these not the same toys we used to make out of scraps as kids? I thought to myself. The exhibits were exact replicas of the toys I had made when I was a kid. Back then, we would use a knife to cut open the milk tin, a stone to flatten it, and with our bare hands, put all parts together to form slippers and various kinds of shapes.

'So silly,” that’s how the adults in our neighborhood would describe us because they didn’t know what our driving force was. They didn’t know that as kids, we were trying to find solutions, we were curious, and wanted to reinvent the world around us.

These toys didn’t inspire our parents, neither were our teachers excited by them, but here they were in one of the world’s most prestigious museums on exhibition for people from all around the world to see. I was amused. As I took some time to see more, I wondered, who gets the benefits out of this? Is it the western world?

***

At the age of twelve, a Sierra Leonean boy named Kevin Doe, taught himself engineering by building his own radio station in Freetown. Doe had also built a generator from scrap metals collected from dustbins in his neighborhood.

Jeremiah Thoronka, at fourteen, invented a device that uses kinetic energy from traffic and pedestrian congestion in Freetown to generate clean power.

Photo Credit: Melvin Sharty

Both innovators now live abroad where they are highly recognized and supported. This supports my point that if we cannot invest in our human capital, the West would come to invest in them and take them away. There are hundreds of examples of Jeremiah, Doe, and even me, kids who are out there in Africa, but would never take their inventions forward because people in their community never believed in them. What we considered as mere toys from Africa are all over the western world in museums, universities, offices, schools, and businesses.

I think that as Africans, we don’t often value what we have within our reach. The fact that I was seeing toys taken out African soil exhibited in the United States made me realize the importance of valuing our own ingenuity and creativity. Too often, we look elsewhere for inspiration or innovation, we overlook the treasures that are right in front of us, whether it’s in our communities, our forests, or our backyards. We rebuke our kids from playing or making things or asking questions. We criticize ourselves for trying new ideas. We are satisfied with old ways of thinking and doing.

We must start paying attention to the talents of our children, our youth, and our adults. Only then can we truly tap into the human capital of every person and realize the richness that surrounds us.

Africans- invest, support, and build your toys so the world would buy.

Melvin Sharty is the co-author of "Talking Kapok Tree & Other Short Stories", and author of "A Gift for Failure (a novella). Melvin lives in Harlem, New York where he works for a non-profit. During his free time, he enjoys writing, visiting museums, or playing soccer.

Adventures of an Awkward African Kid - The Fire

Written from the point of view of a young boy from the east end of Freetown who details personal and family life experiences amidst one of the most brutal civil wars on the African continent.

It was no secret that Grandma was particularly fond of her youngest grandchild, which happens to be me. Everywhere Grandma went, I went along. I was nicknamed Grandma's “walking stick” to my displeasure. However, I did enjoy the perks of being a ‘lastina’: she always had my back.

As I transitioned into a teenager, my interests turned to girls and hanging out with my friends. And because I wanted to be able to defend my future girlfriend like I had seen in The Karate Kid movie, I enlisted our neighbour to train me. My plan backfired one Saturday afternoon when my Uncle caught me taking karate lessons. I was punished intently to deter my participation. The greatest irony is that I was being beaten because “Kung Fu” was deemed physically exhausting and could lead to a medical crisis. Pfft, it was as if they thought the good old authentic African “discipline” meted to me, was somehow physically replenishing. Needless to say, I had no guts, liver or gall to voice out that thought because my parents just didn’t play like that. 

With the absence of karate training, I sought comfort in the thoughts of spending quality time with my crush. She was a beautiful girl, tall with a skinny frame and a smile that instantly made me feel warm and fuzzy in my belly. She had a low haircut, was a little bit bossy, had a bubbly personality and a slight gap tooth causing her to pronounce certain words with a cute lisp. 

Since we had once danced to more than three songs at her cousin’s birthday, and because her cousin was one of my close friends, it was virtually a done deal that she would be my girlfriend. I just needed to find the right moment to ask her out and make it official.

***

The first Monday morning in January of 1999, businesses in Freetown city came alive after the usual festivities and fun-packed Christmas celebrations. Kissy Street, now Sani Abacha Street, was laced with the aroma of hot black coffee and freshly-baked ‘Fula’ bread.

On the first day of school, I was excited to hop on a Poda Poda with my friends at Garrison Street. While we lived in the East end, our school was bound West in Murray Town. I met with my friend Royston who always seemed to have the whitest shirt even after running through a notoriously red dirt area called ‘red pump’; Kofi was a video game junkie like me and also a budding footballer; and then there was Macfoy and the other boys from the east with whom we joked and laughed all the way while sharing incredible accounts of our holiday experiences. 

We were filled with much euphoria as we became reunited with our mates. Some left for the holidays as boys and returned as men. Thankfully, I was still a boy. But not for much longer.

The first day of school ended almost as quickly as the holidays had flashed past. We skipped the last period and took the slum bay route of the city to get home. We used our transport fare to purchase snacks and treats while teasing and bantering with each other on the way. I returned home thoroughly exhausted, finishing my late lunch without any fuss. I showered and went straight to bed. The next day would be grandma’s 80th birthday and it was certainly going to be a good day.

Then came the morning of Tuesday the 6th which was ushered in by gunfire.

My family and all residents of the East of Freetown were greeted by fleeing crowds with their loads. Then there was a short lull of silence, followed by rapid gunshots, RPG bursts and the overpowering smell of tear gas & ordinances. The long senseless civil war of eight years had been building up to a climax, with rebel forces now storming the capital city for their bloodiest quest: “Operation No Living Thing”. 

Tuning to the national radio stations for information was pointless, all they played on repeat were Buju Banton reggae songs and Canterbury Cathedral renditions of the Psalms of David. There had been warnings of a planned invasion of Freetown but somehow the security forces slept on the intel. Or did they? The official instruction on the radio was for residents to remain indoors.

At the time, I had experienced the coups of NPRC 1 & 2, AFRC, and the ECOMOG intervention of 1998 in which Nigerian-led troops crawled in through waste gutters to liberate us so I naively expected the best outcome. 

And while I dreaded any harm befalling me or my family, my most pressing concern was my childhood crush on the other side of the city. Was she safe? How would this "rebel thing" affect our big date at Aqua Sports Club on Saturday? The landline phones had been shot down and this being the era just before the smartphone and social media, there was no other way to know.

On Wednesday, the second day of the siege, a bomb landed on the house across the road from our family home. The house next to it belonged to the Jarrets’ which also went up in flames. Like a symphonic domino knockdown, a gentle harmattan breeze lifted the flames across the road and set the tip of our roof ablaze. 

At the time, our house was a fifty-year-old wooden structure which had been renovated right before the holidays complete with a fresh lick of paint but that did not save it from going up in flames like a crispy bonfire on a breezy evening. Neighbours with ancient grudges laughed at our misfortune as our house was transformed into cinders. But as it is said proverbially in Krio “the rain does not only fall on an individual doorstep.” Moments later the same wind floated the flames over to their structure. 

The smoke was worse than grandma’s wood-smoked jollof cooking on Christmas day. The hardest decision for us was deciding what to take and what to leave for the raging inferno. The fire started around 1:30 p.m. and by sunset, it had ended its wicked scheme. A block of five houses and churches had been raised to the ground.

That night, my family huddled in the back kitchen/coal storeroom/de-factor chicken shed. I realized then that there was no going back. Things would simply never be the same again. Despite the loss of centuries' worth of the family’s heirlooms and personal belongings, the lives of my loved ones were surely the most important treasures we still had. The value of life was irrevocably imprinted in my young mind.

At random intervals, my mind would race back to my Sega Mega Drive games console, the "LA Gear” trainers with flashing lights, and my red photo album which contained cherished memories of good times with friends, family, and most importantly the pics of my crush and I cutting the cake at my thirteenth birthday party.

These blissful reminiscences were often rudely interrupted by sporadic machine gunfire. The pro-government forces and the rebels continued the scattered fighting often with airstrike support from the ECOMOG jets. Radio Democracy 98.1 had been relocated outside of the city to Lungi and was providing pro-government news and updates including broadcasts of BBC’s Focus On Africa. Several people were killed when they came out to the streets believing wrong info from the government radio station, they were sadly ambushed and killed by the rebel forces. We didn’t know what and who to believe.

Who knew that our burnt-down home would turn out to be a blessing in disguise? The rebels assumed our compound had been deserted and this dissuaded them from ever breaching the perimeter.

The battle raged on for nearly a fortnight. With our home located in the east, on the main entry road to the city, it was implausible for our family of seven; a grandparent, a dad and a mom accompanied by four minors; to safely cross nearly 20 km of city terrain loaded with snipers, Nigerian bomber jets playing cops and robbers. We didn’t fancy being converted to human shields for either side so we were forced to wait it out behind enemy lines.

***

Mom had given me a cassette player as a gift for passing my secondary school entrance exams. Pre-invasion, music had been my escape. I’d listen to all sorts of sounds and get lost in them. My playlist was eclectic, with songs from Penny Penny, Michael Jackson, Angelique Kidjo, Peter Andre etc. Fused with electric Euro Dance sounds from Ace of Base, Vengaboys, Black Box, Robyn, Snap, etc. 

Over the holidays I made a tape with handpicked music for my crush. It was a mixtape before I knew what a mixtape was. I dubbed songs from Janet Jackson, Mary J. Blige, Backstreet Boys, Brandy, Keith Sweat, Backstreet, Will Smith, and Celine Dion and titled it “The Love Tape”. During the fire, the mini-cassette player and my entire music collection were incinerated. On those sad nights behind enemy lines, I would perform many of those songs to myself, mostly in my head to escape the dreadful reality around me. Usually, I would be accompanied by a call and response of gunfire in the background. 

After what felt like countless days of terror, the siege ended almost as unexpectedly as it had started. In the days leading up to D-day, there had been propaganda reports from both pro and anti-government forces that each was making gains on the other. 

That particular afternoon after much intense fighting, it became eerily silent. 

Behind enemy lines, one quickly learns how to identify the sounds of the different weapons. The rebels were more reckless and sporadic in their shooting while mostly clusters and bursts of shots came from pro-government forces. 

There had been heavy rebel gunfire and then a lull till early evening. 

We then heard pro-government soldiers doing a door-to-door sweep. The overwhelming smell of smoke, burnt flesh and destruction around us dominated our senses. We had no energy to celebrate other than breathe weary sighs of relief.

At dawn, Grandma’s eldest son accompanied by his son arrived to rescue us. 

As we pulled off from our burnt-out bunker, no one said a word, but it was clear that we were all thinking the same thing.

Driving through the city littered with half-decomposed corpses strewn with jubilant feasting vultures, burning cars, and shelled-out buildings was all too surreal for my senses. They looked like scenes my older brother and I had seen of the Vietnam War in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket film. The once-ancient megalith of our city had been practically razed to the ground. 

What happens after everything falls apart? 

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and then we were picking up the pieces. 

***

Our school reopened in May, this time, the reunion of us boys was sombre. Our boyish excitement had been replaced by something else, it was as though we had all become men for all the wrong reasons: we had seen things.

The saddest part remains that I never actually got to go on that date with my crush.

Grandma relocated to London and as her ‘walking stick’, I followed suit. With that, I was also involuntarily removed from my crush, my friends and my social life in Freetown. I told my sweetheart I would be back soon, but I never knew that “soon” would be twelve years. These are some of the things we lost in the fire, which became an intricate set-up for the next chapter of my life.

*Author’s note: This is a work of nonfiction. Names of individuals have been altered for privacy.

Nick Asgill is a Creative content producer with a passion for developing African culture stories and youth talent in Africa and the Diaspora entertainment spaces. Born and raised in Sierra Leone, Nick found his way into the entertainment industry in London through the “Prince's Trust” Urban Voices program and was mentored by Nigerian entertainment trailblazer JJC Skillz. Nick holds a Bachelor degree in Media Production and has won awards in related fields.

The Power of Love, not the Love of Power

An Ode to “I Picked Up My Pen” by the Late Henry Olufumi Macauley Sr

by Cheukai Songhai Makari

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace”

- Jimi Hendrix

The last week of 61. Another difficult year. It is becoming more and more frequent as there seems to be less to be happy about in Sierra Leone with each passing year. After avoiding visiting her for a year I don't know what I expected when I returned home two weeks ago, but the stagnancy, despair and undeniable feeling of discontent has been palpable. I feel guilty because at least I have the opportunity to take breaks from witnessing the deterioration of the land that we love in real time while the disgruntlement is evident in the faces of the people experiencing it everyday.

Each year, the lights get dimmer, the smiles less joyful, the stomachs more hungry and the streets more silent. But to me the silence isn't a peaceful one, it's the rumblings of frustrated people that are reaching their boiling point. It’s the calm before the storm.

Although it's a thought that pains me to actualize through putting pen to paper, I can’t shake the feeling that the storm is inevitable unless we start making decisions that are driven by power of love rather than the love of power. This love for everything besides the people and the country we reside in is the trait that is being passed down to generations, limiting the transformation of what could be possible in this country and the change we are able to see in our lifetime. Even as I write this, the change that I believed to be possible last year has shifted as I consider the culture surrounding civic duty and leadership is being promoted, passed down and idolised.

We’ve seen it happen before and while people think that the trauma inflicted on our country was enough to set us on the right path, suffering can be a blinding force.

For the past 61 years we have been passing on the baton of selfish decisions limited to what we can achieve in our lifetime. For a people that claim this is the land that we love, it's always a surprise to see the actions we take reflecting anything but that. As we head into another democratic election since the independence of this great nation I only hope that we can remember the passion and faith our parents once had, and the discouragement they feel only to see Sierra Leone as it is today and allow that to fuel us to ensure that it won’t be our same fate. Entering chapter 62 today, I only hope we can begin to see our country as the extension of ourselves so that when we decide to act in our best interest, it's in the interest of our country the citizens that deserve to enjoy the greatness that this nation has to offer. Another year older means another year wiser and we can to push the needle so that the change that we idealise in Sierra Leone can be something that is considered achievable, even if not in our lifetime at least in the lifetime of those who we pass the baton to.

Looking past 62 doesn't seem as clear or optimistic as it should be, but for today, happiest bittersweet birthday Mama Salone.

Cheukai Songhai Makari is a young passionate Sierra Leonean based in New York City. She was raised in Freetown and is pursuing a career in economic development with a drive to increase the standard of lvinng for the average Sierra Leonean.

THE HOMILY OF HOSTILITY AND HOPE BY A HIP-HOP INTELLECTUAL (CORONA VIRUS PANDEMIC)

First, Europeans invaded our land. They captured us as slaves, exploited our resources, eroded our culture, and instituted a colonial system of governance. After independence from the United Kingdom, we thought our chance to build a better society was here. Sadly, those dreams were shattered by a barbaric dictatorship. Next, we suffered civil war for ten years. Later, an Ebola outbreak ravaged our country. This killer disease consumed lives, lines and legacies. To our greatest surprise, the twin disaster was on its way. The mudslide and flooding of August 2017 perished households around the water catchment area of Mount Sugar Loaf. It took us back to square one. With this background, you wonder if life is worth living (for the ordinary Sierra Leonean), as Tupac blasted himself in the song Changes.

The Sierra Leone story has segments of sadness. Ice Cube clearly stated in the rap biopic, Straight Outta Compton - “our arts is a reflection of our reality”. The history of Sierra Leone is shaped around these ugly realities. This is something we as a people cannot erase, but just live with. Amid these harsh realities, we have constantly shown response, reaction, and resiliency.

Fast forward – President Bio declared 2020 as “the year of delivery” from his government. This statement by President Bio is parallel to J.Cole’s poetic genius in Middle Child. He has chanted this policy statement in public gatherings and cabinet meetings. We as citizens watch in anticipation for the goodies of greatness to come down us falling. Well, here we go! The global Corona virus pandemic is threatening to stall development drives. The signs of hostility from this satanic pathogen are visible in Mama Salone. One is left to ponder on this question from Black Eyed Peas “what is wrong with the world, mama?”.

The rulers of Mama Salone have asked us to practice individualism; they have stopped the flying of planes on our air space; they have placed a temporal pause on the houses where the teachings from the Christ and Holy Prophet are studied and they have given closure date to the campuses of the Athens of West Africa. The spots that provide food, family-time, fashion shows, and fantasy clusters have been slammed with indefinite measures. The good news - people are complying with these trends. Even with this positive vibe - “dis tin don really monah wi oh”, as Kao Denero rapped fifteen years ago.

Walk down the streets of Freetown, and you will feel the impact of this horrible outbreak. The prices of commodities are heading sky high; the free flow of information is distorted by corona cry; the bonding religion offers is ceased, and people are losing jobs like the wind. The banks and bureaus have seen a drop in money transfer into Sierra Leone. The western world is on lockdown! The people who send money into Sierra Leone cannot leave their houses, cannot go to work, cannot make additional income, and are saving for any eventual economic catastrophe…”And the struggles of the brothers and the folks”, as rapper Common, expressed in The People.

Kendrick Lamar shared his story in “I” soundtrack. He went through his struggles, trials, and tribulations. But he knew God is going to sail him. In the case of Sierra Leone, we are going to resist this plague. The other countries will defeat this viral venom. And the planet is going to return to the pathway of prosperity. Twista gave us great words of encouragement in Hopeful. The fortunes of this country would change from Jazzy to Jay-Z. The former was this young kid from Brooklyn selling dope. The latter is a billion-dollar worth, Grammy award-winning rapper.

At the end of the day, we are going to join The Game, Tyga, Wiz Khalifa, Lil Wayne & Chris Brown for a celebration. Right now, we need to heed to the advice of Nas - stay Sabali (stay patient).

Paul A. Conteh is a Sierra Leonean Lecturer, Development Professional and Public Affairs Analyst

Dear Woman, Be a Whole Woman.

This is presumably an unrealistic advice to give a group of 27 young women from different countries on Friday 24th July, 2015 during a session of self-reflection at a leadership program in Ghana. But it is sound advice. Something I heed to date. 

That day , I penned down what being a whole woman meant for me after a moment of  soul searching and reflection. Later reading what I wrote down - a whole woman is a person who is comfortable with who she is and gives out her best no matter what, is honest with herself and loves unconditionally - a part of me agrees. The optimist and romantic in me agrees. But then there's reality. 

How can I show up and give my best  when I am still fighting to be comfortable in my own weird shoes? Maybe I should first learn the dynamics of contemporary womanhood? Deciphering what womanhood means is complicated. Even more so growing up in a patriarchal society such as ours. 

The barriers as an African woman that I face while trying to find out what it means to be a woman; the cultural expectations, stereotypes, figuring out how to balance work, family and friends and still find time for myself. It gets tiring. And then there's the battle within, to know myself, my goals, my values, my passion and what fuels it. 

The fact that the playing field is not level in our patriarchal society is infuriating, the ignorance of most men is heart wrenching and then society's frustrations threatens to bring out the "angry black woman". Another stereotype. It is okay to be angry. It is an emotion. It is also understandable since as women we face, struggle with and work hard to transcend the limits society sets for us. 

Ignorant comments about body weight, saggy boobs, stretch marks and the vagina, make women feel self- conscious about our bodies. Women have to explain and educate men about our bodies, our needs and continued survival just to bridge the gap of male ignorance.

As a country we have accepted negative aspects of the patriarchal system as something unchangeable. We have a very poor attitude to issues affecting women like teenage pregnancy, child marriage, gender based violence; including intimate partner violence, female genital mutilation, rape, trafficking, sexual abuse. We must dispel certain notions including but not limited to the notion that there are “just” causes for gender based violence, the notion that men have the right to control their wives behavior and “discipline” them, blaming the victim for the violence received. 

In Sierra Leone, the Multiple Indicator Cluster Survey 2016 shows that a higher percentage of women as compared to men think domestic violence is justifiable. 86.1% of the women between ages 15-49 have undergone any form of FGM. 36.1% of the women aged 20-49 were married before age 18. https://www.statistics.sl/images/StatisticsSL/Documents/sierra_leone_mics6_2017_report.pdf 

I see myself as a feminist. Sometimes though, I ponder about what makes me a feminist especially since I sometimes feel I'm a hypocrite. Impostor syndrome hits hard. Should I alienate my values, views, choices? Can I be a feminist and still be a huge fan of Eminem, .a huge fan of rap music? Or do I just fall on my volunteer work with women activist groups to make a difference in the lives of girls & women. 

 To embody the "whole woman" ” concept, I have learnt to value my safe space where I'm learning to be comfortable in my skin, be vulnerable, practice self care, build relationships and be honest. Yes, I have my dark moments but I'm happy for my support  system. I am owning every word used to describe me; Tomboy? Hell yeah! Feminist? Of course! Boss? Yes I am! Thick? Yes! Whole Woman? Yes! 

Dear woman, being a whole woman does not mean you are void of flaws, or have it all figured out. Who does? We are all just figuring life out in our own unique way. 

Let me end with my favorite quote about being a whole woman by Maame Afon Yelbert-Obeng, “As a whole woman you bring all of who you are into everything you do”. 

Davephine Tholley is a young vibrant Sierra Leonean, Civil Engineer with the relentless drive to effect change, willingness to lead and commitment to serve.

This Golden Badge of Honor

January 6th, I can still remember the hate in their fingers when they wore this badge of honor on me- it was a brutal merit, a verdict of unconscious merriment and injustice. Burned bridges, soul injured- they left me to unpack with eye lid and bruised kneecap, couldn’t turn back because they burned down my bridge. Do I really deserve this golden badge of honor?

January 6th, Boom Boom 💥everywhere like my heart beat their guns bleat but with a different language of I hate you, they break me. Crave to put forth my future at stake- I could have been a basketball player, an instrumentalist, a footballer, an engineer and many more.They literally killed my dreams.

Tick tick⏱ every night time whispered in my ears, telling me not to worry because he is the best doctor “I heal and Gods time is the best,” .Thus, I beg to ask the question- do I really deserve this golden badge of honor?

January 6th, I was only 3 years old when they came . Nothing to bargain for but a will so free.They refused to see the innocence in me, they let my blood be the signature to a treaty between chaos and solidarity. A solidarity to peace ,they say, a peace I cannot find . Do I really deserve this golden badge of honor?

January 6th, an event that left a mark on the forehead of our nation, exposed this beautiful country and it’s people to the invasion of corrupt minds. Corrupt men with gifts of a wordsmith, architects to our blood spills and when it comes to giving, they are stingy as iron-smiths. I have blatantly refused to to accept anything they say to weigh me down. It must be fate- I convince myself. I have this to say -when our fate meets destiny ,we sometimes feel the entire world must be wrong and it wasn’t our time but we must not let these stereotypes leads our minds into oceans of frustration, but rather we must have the courage to mix anger with sympathy, hate with compassion, and above all we must love .

Do I really deserve this golden badge of honor?

Abass Sesay is a Final Year Student at the Department of Sociology & Social Work at the Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, and a Disability Advocate.